Winter Evening

Close your eyes. Not tightly. Just let them close, as if that were their natural state.

Sit very, very still. Now feel your toes. Try to sense your feet. You can feel blood flow through veins, in and out, in and out.

Breathe slowly and effortlessly. The rise and fall of your chest, the feel of cloth to skin. Lift your face upwards to the ceiling. Try and feel a breeze against your face, and you will.

Try and sense your fingers, with your hands lying limp. From the inside of your skin, try and feel your fingers. The crevices and ridges we call finger-prints, our individual identities in a world of similarity and same-ness.

There is a connect with everything external. The feel of slippers to the soles of your feet. The fall of light on the walls, and shadows cast randomly around. The stillness is that of a picture.

And you don't want to move. You don't want to change the expression on your face, or lift your fingers finally. Nothing to disturb a perfect equilibrium.

Equilibrium. A balance with all surroundings.

You don't even move your eyes. The same gaze on the same wall on the same spot.

Every single breath is a ripple. An irking disturbance.

Sshhh.